117CHAPTER XIA HOUSE OF SORROW
Mr. Barnby took his leave, feeling very wretched. John Swinton remained in the study, staring at the telegram like one stunned. He read and re-read it until the words lost their meaning.
“Gone—gone—poor Dick gone!” he murmured, “and just as we were beginning to hold up our heads again, and feel that life was worth living. My poor boy—my poor boy!”
A momentary spirit of rebellion took possession of him, and he clenched his fists and cursed the war.
Light, rippling music broke on his ear. Netty was at the piano in the drawing-room. He must calm himself. His hand was shaking and his knees trembling. He could only murmur, “Poor Dick! Poor Dick!” and weep like a child.
The music continued in a brighter key, and jarred upon him. He covered his ears, and paced up and down the room as though racked with pain.
“How can I tell them—how can I tell them?” he sobbed. “Our poor boy—our fine boy—our little Dick, who had grown into such a fine, big chap. He died gloriously—yes, there’s some consolation118in that. But it doesn’t wipe out the horror of it, my poor lad. Shot as a spy! Executed! A crowd of ruffians leveling their guns at you—my poor lad—”
He could not follow the picture further. He buried his face in his hands and dropped into the little tub chair by the fire. The music in the next room broke into a canter, with little ripples of gaiety.
“Stop!” he cried in his agony.
At the moment, the study door opened gently—the soft rustle of silk—his wife.
In an instant, she was at his side.
“What is it—what has happened?”
He rose, and extended his hand to her like a blind man. “Dick—”
“Is dead! Oh!”
A long, tremulous cry, and she fell into his arms. “I knew it—I felt it coming. Oh, Dick—Dick, why did they make you go?”
“He died gloriously, darling—for his country, performing an act of gallantry—volunteering to run a great risk. A hero’s death.”
They wept in each other’s arms for some moments, and the gay music stopped of its own accord.
“Netty will be here in a moment, and she’ll have to be told,” said Mrs. Swinton. “The bishop and the others mustn’t get an inkling of what has happened.119Their condolences would madden us. Send them away, John—send them away.”
“They’ll be going presently, darling. If I send them away, I must explain why. Pull yourself together. We’ve faced trouble before, and must face this. It is our first real loss in this world. We still have Netty.”
“Netty! Netty!” cried his wife, with a petulance that almost shocked him. “What is she compared with Dick? And they’ve taken him—killed him. Oh, Dick!”
Netty’s voice could be heard, laughing and talking in a high key as she opened the drawing-room door. “I’ll find her,” she was saying, and in another moment she burst into the study.
“Mother—mother, they’re all asking for you. The bishop is going now. Why, what is the matter?”
“Your mother and I are not very well, Netty, dear. Tell them we shall be back in a moment.”
“More money worries, I suppose,” sighed Netty with a shrug, as she went out of the room.
“You see how much Netty cares,” cried Mrs. Swinton.
“You’re rather hard on the girl, dearest. Your heart is bitter with your loss. Let us be charitable.”
“But Dick!—Dick! Our boy!” she sobbed. Then, with a wonderful effort, she aroused herself,120dried her eyes, and composed her features for the ordeal of facing her guests again. With remarkable self-control, she assumed her social manner as a mummer dons his mask; and, after one clasp of her husband’s hand and a sympathetic look, went back to her guests with that leisurely, graceful step which was so characteristic of the popular and self-possessed Mary Swinton.
Netty, who was quick to read the signs, saw that something was wrong, and that her mother was eager to get rid of her guests. She expedited the farewells with something of her mother’s tact, and with an artificial regret that deceived no one. The bishop went unbidden to the study of his old friend, the rector, ostensibly to say good-bye, but in reality to drop a few hints concerning the unpleasant complaints that had reached him during the year from John Swinton’s creditors. He knew Swinton’s worth, his over-generous nature, his impulsive optimism and his great-hearted Christianity; but a rector whom his parishioners threatened to make bankrupt was an anxiety in the diocese. While the clergyman listened to the bishop’s friendly words, he could not conceal the misery in his heart.
“What’s the matter?” cried the bishop at last, when John Swinton burst into tears, and turned away with a sob.121
The rector waved his hand to the telegram lying on the table, and the bishop took it up.
“Dreadful! A terrible blow! Words of sympathy are of little avail at the present moment, old friend,” he said, placing his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Everyone’s heart will open to you, John, in this time of trouble. The Lord giveth and He taketh away. Your son has died the death of an honorable, upright man. We are all proud of him, as you will be when you are more resigned. Good-bye, John. This is a time when a man is best left to the care of his wife.”
The parting handgrip between the bishop and the stricken father was long and eloquent of feeling, and the churchman’s voice was husky as he uttered the final farewell. Soon, everyone was gone. The door closed behind the last gushing social personage, and the rector was seated by the fire, with his face buried in his hands. Netty came quietly to his side.
“Father, something serious is the matter with mother. You’ve had news from the war. What is it—nothing has happened to Harry?”
“No, child—your brother.”
“Oh!”
The unguarded exclamation expressed a world of relief. Then, Netty’s shallow brain commenced to work, and she murmured:122
“Is Dick wounded or—?”
“The worst, Netty dear. He is gone.”
He spoke with his face still hidden. “Go to your mother,” he pleaded, for he wished to be alone.
A furious anger against the war—against all war and bloodshed, was rising up within him. All a father’s protective instinct of his offspring burst forth. Revenge entered into his soul. He beat the air with clenched fists, and with distended eyes saw the muzzles of rifles presented at his helpless boy.
Of a sudden, he remembered Mr. Barnby’s accusation against his son’s honor. The horrible, abominable suggestion of forgery.
Everybody seemed to have been against the boy. How could Dick have forged his grandfather’s signature? Herresford, who was always down on Dick, had made an infamous charge—the result of a delusion in his dotage. It mattered little now, or nothing. Yet, everything mattered that touched the honor of his boy. It was disgraceful, disgusting, cruel.
Netty had gone to her own room, weeping limpid, emotional tears, with no salt of sorrow in them. The mother was in the drawing-room, sobbing as though her heart would break. A chill swept over the house. In the kitchen, there was silence, broken by an occasional cry of grief.
The rector pulled himself together, and went to his123wife. He found her in a state of collapse on the hearth-rug, and lifted her up gently. He had no intention of telling her of Barnby’s mistake, or of uttering words of comfort. In the thousand and one recollections that surged through his brain touching his boy, words seemed superfluous.
He put his arm tenderly around the queenly wife of whom he was so proud, for she was more precious to him than any child—and led her back to his study. He drew forward a little footstool by the fire, which was a favorite seat with her, and placed her there at his feet, while he sat in the tub chair; and she rested between his knees, in the old way of years ago, when they were lovers, and gossiped over the fire after all the house was quiet and little golden-haired Dick was fast asleep upstairs.
And thus they sat now, till the fire burned out, and the keen, frosty air penetrated the room, chilling them to the bone.
“Grieving will not bring him back, darling,” murmured the broken man. “Let us to bed. Perhaps, a little sleep will bring us comfort and strength to face the morrow, and attend to our affairs as usual.”
She arose wearily, and asked in quite a casual manner, as if trying to avoid the matter of their sorrow:
“What did Barnby want?”
“Oh, he came with some crazy story about—some checks Dick cashed for you, which your father124repudiates. The old man must be going mad!”
“Checks?” she asked huskily, and her face was drawn with terror.
“Checks for quite large amounts,” said the rector. “Two or five thousand dollars, or something like that. The old man’s memory must be failing him. He’s getting dangerous. I always thought his animosity against Dick was more assumed than real, but to launch such a preposterous accusation is beyond enduring.”
“Does he accuse Dick?” she asked, in a strained voice; “Dick, who is dead?”
“Yes, darling. But don’t think of such nonsense. Barnby himself saw the absurdity of discussing it. Dick has had no money except what you got for him.”
She made no reply, but with bowed head walked unsteadily out of the room.
125CHAPTER XIIA DIFFICULT POSITION
There was no rest for John Swinton that night. After the first rush of sorrow, he began to rebel against the injustice of his Master, who seemed to heap trouble upon him with both hands, and reward his untiring efforts in the cause of good by a crushing load of worry. His was a temperament generally summed up by the world in the simple phrase, good-natured. He was soft-hearted, and weaker of spirit than he knew. Those in trouble always found in him a sympathetic listener; and the distress and poverty among his people often pained him more acutely than it did the actual sufferers born in, and inured to, hardship and privation.
His energy was tremendous where a noble end was to be achieved; but he loved the good things of life, and hated its trivial worries, the keeping of accounts, the payment of cash on the spot, and the attendance of committee meetings, where men met together to talk of doing what he could accomplish single-handed while they were deliberating. He was worldly enough to know that a great deal could be done by money, and his hand was always in his126pocket to help those less fortunate than himself. The influence of a wife that had no sympathy with plain, common people who wore the wrong clothes, and said the wrong things, and desired to be guided in their ridiculous, trivial affairs, had more to do with his failure than he knew.
He was always drawn between two desires, the one to be a great and beloved divine, the other to be a country gentleman, living in refinement, and in surroundings sympathetic to his emotional artistic temperament. The early promise of his youth, unfulfilled in his middle age, had disappointed him. But there was always one consolation. His son would endure no privation and limitation such as hampered a man without private means, like himself. As the heir to Herresford’s great wealth, Dick’s future prospects had seemed to be assured. But the lad himself, careless of his own interests, like his father, ran wild at an awkward period when his grandfather, breaking in mind and body, developed those eccentricities which became the marked feature of his latter days. The animosity of the old man was aroused, and once an enemy was always an enemy with him. He cared nothing for his daughter. Indeed, he cherished a positive hatred of her at times; and never lost an opportunity of humiliating the rector and making him feel that he gained127nothing by marrying the daughter against her father’s wishes.
It was bad enough to have troubles coming upon him in battalions without this final blow—the charge of forgery against Dick.
The wife, unable to rest, arose and paced the house in the small hours. She dreaded to ask for further particulars of the charge brought by the bank against poor Dick, for fear she should be tempted to confess to her husband that she had robbed her own father. The horrible truth stood out now in its full light, naked and terrifying. With any other father, there might have been a chance of mercy. But there was none with this one. The malevolent old miser’s nature had ever been at war with her own. From her birth, he had taunted her with being like her mother—a shallow, worthless, social creature, incapable of straight dealing and plain economy. From her childhood, she had deceived him, even in the matter of pennies. She had lied to him when she left home to elope with John Swinton; and it was only by threatening him with lawyers and a public scandal that she had been able to make him disgorge a part of the income derived from her dead mother’s fortune, which had been absorbed by the miser through a legal technicality at his wife’s death.
He would not scruple to prosecute his own child128for theft. He would certainly make her smart for her folly. The bad end, which he always prophesied for anyone who did not conform to his arrogant decrees, loomed imminent and forbidding. He was little better than a monster, with no more paternal instinct than the wild-cat. He would only chuckle and rub his hands in glee at the thought of her humiliation in the eyes of her friends. He might accuse the rector of complicity in her fraud. He would spread ruin around, rather than lose his dollars.
In the morning, half-an-hour after the bank opened, Mr. Barnby appeared again at the rectory, impelled by a strict sense of duty once more to enter the house of sorrow, on what was surely the most unpleasant errand ever undertaken by a man at his employer’s bidding. The news of Dick’s death had already spread over the town; and those who knew of the affair at the club dinner and the taunt of cowardice did not fail to comment on the glorious end of the brave young officer who had died a hero. A splendid coward they called him, ironically.
Mr. Barnby asked to see her ladyship, and not the rector. The recollection of John Swinton’s haggard face had kept him awake half the night. The more he thought of the forgery, the more he was inclined to believe that Mrs. Swinton could explain the129mystery of the checks. He knew, by referring to several banking-accounts, that she had recently been paying away large sums of money to tradesmen, and the amounts paid by Dick Swinton were not particularly large.
Mrs. Swinton stood outside the drawing-room door with her hand on her heart for a full minute, before she dared enter to meet the visitor. Then, assuming her most self-possessed manner, with a slight touch of hauteur, she advanced to greet the newcomer.
He arose awkwardly, and she gave him a distant bow.
“You wish to see me, I understand, and you come from some bank, I believe?”
She spoke in a manner indicating that her visitor was a person of whose existence she had just become aware.
“Your husband has not informed you of the purport of my visit last night, Mrs. Swinton?” asked Mr. Barnby.
“He spoke of some silly blunder about checks. Why have you come to me this morning—at a time of sorrow? Surely your wretched business can wait?”
“It cannot wait,” replied Mr. Barnby, with growing coolness. He saw a terrified look in her eyes,130and his own sparkled with triumph. It was easier to settle matters of business with a woman in this mood than with a tearful mother.
“I shall be as brief as possible, Mrs. Swinton. I only come to ask you a plain question. Did you recently receive from your father, Mr. Herresford, a check for two dollars?”
“I—I did. Yes, I believe so. I can’t remember.”
“Did you receive one from him for two thousand dollars?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because the check for two dollars appears to have been altered into two thousand.”
“Let me see it,” she demanded with the greatestsang froid.
He produced the check, and she took it; but her hand trembled.
“This is certainly a check for two thousand dollars, but I know nothing of it.”
“It was presented at the bank by your son, and cashed.”
“I tell you I know nothing of it. My son is dead, and cannot be questioned now.”
“I have another check here for five thousand dollars, made out to your son and cashed by him also. You will see that the ink has changed color in one part, and that the five has been altered to five thousand.131The body of the check is in your handwriting, I believe.”
“Yes, that is my handwriting.”
“The additions were very cleverly made,” ventured Mr. Barnby. “The forger must have imitated your handwriting wonderfully.”
“Yes, it is wonderfully like,” she replied, huskily.
“This check was also presented by your son, and honored by us. Both checks are repudiated by your father, who will only allow us to debit his account with seven dollars. Therefore, we are six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-three dollars to the bad. Mr. Ormsby, our managing director, says we must recover the money somehow. Your son is dead, and cannot explain, as you have already reminded me. Unfortunately, a warrant has been applied for, for his arrest for forgery.”
“You mean to insinuate that my son is a criminal?” she cried, with mock rage, drawing herself up, and acting her part very badly.
“If you say those checks were not altered by you, there can be little doubt of the identity of the guilty person.”
“My son is dead. How dare you bring such a charge against him. I refuse to listen to you, or to discuss money matters at such a time. My father must pay the money.”
“He refuses, absolutely. And he says he will132prosecute the offender, even if the forger be his own child.”
“He has the wickedness and audacity to suggest that I—?”
“I merely repeat his words.”
She rang the bell, sweeping across the room in her haughtiest manner, and drawing herself up to her full height. The summons was answered instantly.
“Show this gentleman to the door.”
“Madam, I will convey the result of this interview to Mr. Ormsby.”
The old man bowed himself out with a dignity that was more real than hers, and it had, as well, a touch of contempt in it.
The moment the door closed behind him, Mrs. Swinton dropped into a chair, white and haggard, gasping for breath, with her heart beating great hammer-strokes that sent the blood to her brain. The room whirled around, the windows danced before her eyes, she clutched the back of a chair to prevent herself from fainting.
“God help me!” she cried. “There was no other way. The disgrace, the exposure, the scandal would be awful. I should be cut by everybody—my husband pointed at in the streets and denounced as a partner in my guilt—for he has shared the money. It was to pay his debts as well, to save133Dick and the whole household from ruin—for Netty’s sake, too—how could Harry Bent marry a bankrupt clergyman’s daughter? But it wasn’t really my doing, it was his, his! He’s no father at all. He’s a miser, a beast of prey, a murderer of souls! From my birth, he’s hated and cheated me. He has checked every good impulse, and made me regard his money as something to be got by trickery and misrepresentation and lies. And, now, I have lied on paper, and they suspect poor, dead Dick, who was the soul of honor. Oh, Dick, Dick! But they can’t do anything to you, Dick—you’re dead. Better to accuse you than ruin all of us. Your father couldn’t hold up his head again, or preach a sermon from the pulpit. We should be beggars. I couldn’t live that kind of a life. I should die. I have only one child now, and she must be my care. I’ve not been a proper mother to her, I fear, but I’ll make up for it—yes, I’ll make up for it. If I spoiled her life now, she would never forgive me—never! She is like me: she must have the good things of life, the things that need money. And, after all, it was my own money I took. It was no theft at all. It’s only the wretched law that gives a miser the power to crush his own child for scrawling a few words on a piece of paper.”
Then came the worst danger of all. How was134she to explain to her husband—how make him see her point of view—how face his condemnation of her guilty act, and secure his consent to the damnable sin of dishonoring her dead son’s name to save the family from ruin.
135CHAPTER XIIIDICK’S HEROISM
Everybody in the country heard of Dick Swinton’s death and the way in which he died—except Dora Dundas. The news was withheld from her by trickery; and she went on in blissful ignorance of the calamity that had overtaken her. The newspapers were full of the story. It had in it the picturesque elements that touch the public imagination and arouse enthusiasm.
It appeared, from the narrative of a man who narrowly escaped death—one of the gallant band of three who volunteered to penetrate the enemy’s lines and carry dispatches—that General Stone, who for days was cut off from the main body of the army, found it absolutely necessary to call for volunteers to carry information and plans to the commander in the field. Three men were chosen—two officers and a private—Dick Swinton, Jack Lorrimer, and a private named Nutt. The three men started from different points, and their instructions were to converge and join forces, and pass through a narrow ravine, which was the only possible path. Once through this, they could make a136bolt for the American lines. Each man carried a written dispatch in such a manner that it could be destroyed instantly, the moment danger threatened, and, also, the subject matter of the dispatch was committed to memory.
The enemy’s lines were penetrated at night, but unforeseen dangers and obstacles presented themselves; so that it was daylight before the ravine was reached. The gallant three met at the appointed spot, and were within sight of one another, with only half-a-mile to ride through the ravine, when a shot rang out. A hundred rifles arose from the boulders. The little band rushed for cover, and destroyed their dispatches by burning.
Certain death stared them in the face. After destroying the papers, they elected to ride on and run the gantlet, rather than be captured as spies and shot ignominiously. But it was too late. They were surrounded. Only when Jack Lorrimer fell with one arm shattered by a bullet and a bullet had grazed Dick Swinton’s side did the others surrender. They were promised their lives, if they laid down their arms and gave up the dispatches.
The prisoners were bound and marched to a lonely farmhouse, where their persons were searched and their saddles ripped to pieces to find the papers. The failure to discover anything aroused the anger of their captors, and Dick Swinton, who from his137bearing seemed to be an officer, was exhorted to reveal the nature of his mission on promise of his life. He refused. A further examination was made. Their boots were cut to pieces, the heels split open, their weapons smashed, and their clothes torn to ribbons, but without avail. They were brought before an officer high in command, who charged them with bearing important messages, and again promised them their lives, if they would betray their country. Each man doggedly refused. They were given an hour to reconsider their decision; at the end of that time, they were to be shot. A firing party was told off, and the men were led outside the house, where they were bound hand and foot, and flung upon the ground—for an engagement was in progress, and distant firing threatened a possible advance on the part of the Americans. So hot was the firing that the hour’s respite was reduced to half-an-hour, and a surly old soldier was sent to inform them that he had orders to carry out their execution at once, if they would not speak.
They refused, without hesitation.
Jack Lorrimer was unbound, and led around to the side of the farmhouse. They tied him to a halter-ring on the wall. Three times, he was given the chance of saving his life by treachery; and his only reply was: “I’m done. Damn you—shoot!” The rifles were raised; there was a rattling volley,138a drooping figure on the halter-cord, and the officer turned his attention to the others.
“Now then, the next.”
Dick Swinton and Nutt were lying side by side. Nutt had taken advantage of the interest excited by the execution to wriggle himself free of his loosely-tied fetters, which consisted of cords binding his wrists behind his back and passed around to a knot on his breast. He called upon Dick to aid him. Dick Swinton rolled over, and with his teeth loosened the first knot, then fell back into the old position.
Nutt remained as though still bound.
Dick was next unbound, and led around the farmhouse. That was Nutt’s opportunity. He saw them first drag away the dead body of Jack Lorrimer, and fling it on one side; then they thrust Dick back against the wall out of sight.
There was a pause while the firing party loaded their rifles. This was the moment chosen by Nutt for shaking off his bonds. He crawled a few yards, heard the appeal to Dick Swinton, and Dick’s defiant refusal—then the order to fire, and the volley. He arose to his feet and ran.
All the men in the ravine were gone forward to repel the dreaded advance, and the path was moderately clear. He ran for dear life until he reached the firing line, where he seized a wounded soldier’s139rifle, and dropped down as though he were dead. Here, he remained until the firing line retreated slowly before the American advance, and he heard the tramp of feet and the bad language of the soldiers, groaning, swearing, cursing. Then, he got up, turned around, and with a yell of triumph entered into the battle against his former captors.
At the end of the fighting, he reported himself at headquarters. He told his story to the general, and to a newspaper correspondent. He made the most of it, and informed them how, as he wriggled free of his bonds, he heard the officer commanding the firing party call upon Dick Swinton three times, as upon the preceding victim. Each time, there came Dick’s angry refusal, in a loud, defiant tone. Then, as he ran, there was the ugly volley. When he looked back, the firing party were dragging away the dead body, preparatory to stripping it.
The sympathy with the rector was profound. Letters of condolence poured in. Yet, the bereaved man could not absolutely reconcile himself to the belief that Dick was no more. But it was evident that the authorities regarded Nutt’s news as convincing, or they would not have sent an official intimation of his death.
Colonel Dundas read the news in his morning paper. It was his custom to seize the journals the moment they arrived, and read to Dora at the breakfast-table140all war news of vital interest—and a good deal more that was prosy, and only interesting to a soldier. By chance, he saw the story of Dick’s death before his daughter came upon the scene, and was discreet enough not to mention the matter. Since Dora’s refusal of Ormsby, he was fairly certain as to the nature of his daughter’s feelings toward Dick, and in his displeasure made no reference whatever to the young man whom formerly he had so welcomed to his home.
Dora was left to find out the truth four days later, when she came upon a stray copy of a weekly paper belonging to the housekeeper. Dick’s portrait stared out at her from the middle of the page, and the whole story was given in detail. She was stunned at first, and, like the rector, refused to believe. It seemed possible that, at the last moment, the firing party might have missed their aim—a preposterous idea, seeing that the prisoner was set with his back against the wall, a dozen paces from his executioners.
She understood why her father had not mentioned it. For the last day or two, he had sung the praises of Captain Ormsby, who was coming to dine with them on Monday. He had thrown out a very distinct hint as to his own admiration for that gentleman’s sterling qualities.
There was no one to help Dora bear her sorrow.141It prostrated her. But for the forlorn hope that the escaped trooper might have made a mistake, and that, after all, Dick might have been saved, she would have broken down utterly.
It was unnecessary to tell the colonel that his well-meant postponement of the sad news was wasted effort. He ventured awkwardly to comment upon the death of their old friend.
“A good chap—a wild chap,” he observed “but of no real use to anybody but his country, which has reason to thank him. If I’d been in his place, I should have done the same. But, if I’d done what he did before he left home, I think I should have died in the firing line, quietly and decently. Poor chap! Poor chap!”
“What do you mean by ‘if you had done what he did before he left home?’” asked the grief-stricken girl.
“I mean the forgery.”
“What forgery?”
“Do you mean to say you haven’t heard? Why, everybody knows about it. Ormsby kept it dark as long as he could, but Herresford forced his hand. Don’t you know what they’re saying?”
“I know what Mr. Ormsby said. But I warn you not to expect me to believe any lie that ungenerous, cruel man has circulated about the man I loved.”142
“Well, they say he went out to the war to get shot.”
“It’s a lie!”
“He was in an awful hole, up to his eyes in debt, and threatened with arrest. He almost ruined his father and mother, and forged his grandfather’s signature to two checks, robbing him of seven thousand dollars—or, rather, defrauded the bank, for Herresford won’t pay, and the bank must. It is poor Ormsby who will be the sufferer. He suspected the checks, and said nothing—just like him—the only thing he could do, after the row at the club dinner.”
“Is it on the authority of Mr. Ormsby that these foul slanders on my dead lover have been made? Are they public property, or just a private communication to you, father?”
“It is the talk of the town, girl. Why, his own mother has had to own up that the checks were forgeries. He cashed two checks for her, and saw his opportunity to alter the amounts, passing over to her the original small sums, while he kept the rest to pay his debts. Herresford’s opinion of him has been very small all along; but nobody expected the lad to steal. Such a pity! Such a fine chap, too—the sort of boy girls go silly about, but lacking in backbone and stability. The matter of the checks has been kept from his father for the present,143poor man. He knows nothing whatever about it.”
“Father, the things you tell me sound like the horrible complications of a nightmare. They are absurd.”
“Absurd! Why, I’ve seen the forged checks, girl. The silly young fool forgot to use the same colored ink as in the body of the check. A few days afterward, the added figures and words dried black as jet, whereas the ink used by Herresford dried a permanent blue.”
“Mr. Ormsby showed you the checks?”
“Yes. Dora—Dora—don’t look like that! I understand, my girl. I know you were fond of the boy, and I disapproved of it from the beginning. I said nothing, in case he didn’t come home from the front. Put him out of your heart, my girl—out of mind. I’m as sorry about everything as if he were a boy of my own, and, if I could do anything for poor John Swinton and his wife, I would. I saw Mrs. Swinton yesterday driving, looking superbly handsome, as usual, but turned to stone. Poor old John goes about, saying, ‘My son isn’t dead! My son isn’t dead!’ and nobody contradicts him.”
“And Netty?” asked Dora, with a sob.
“Oh! nobody bothers about her. It’ll postpone her marriage with Harry Bent, I suppose, for a little while. They were to have been married as soon144as he was well enough. Sit up, my girl—sit up. Keep a straight upper lip. You’re under fire, and it’s hot.”
“I can’t—I can’t!” sobbed Dora, burying her face in her hands, and swaying dangerously. Her father rushed forward to catch her, and held her to his heart, where she sobbed out her grief. While they stood thus, in the centre of the room, the servant announced Mr. Ormsby.
At the mention of his name, Dora cried out in anger, and declared that she would not see him. But her father hushed her, and nodded to the servant as a sign that the unwelcome gentleman was to be shown into the room.
“We’re a little upset, Ormsby—we’re a little upset,” cried the colonel. “But a soldier’s daughter is not afraid of her tears being seen. We were talking about poor Swinton. Dora has only just heard. How do things go at the rectory? And what’s Herresford going to do about the checks?”
“He insists upon our paying, and we must get the money from somebody. Mrs. Swinton has none. We must put the case to the rector, and get him to reimburse the bank to avoid a lawsuit and a public scandal. Poor Swinton set things right by his death. There was no other way out. He died like a brave man, and he will be remembered as a hero, except by those who know the truth; and I am powerless to145keep that back now. Believe me, Miss Dundas, if I had known of his death, I would have cut out my tongue rather than have published the story of the crime, which was the original cause of his going to the war.”
“So, you still believe him to be a coward as well as a thief,” she cried, hotly. “You are a hypocrite. It was you who really sent him away. He never meant to go. He didn’t want to go. And now you have killed him.”
“Hush, hush, Dora!” cried the colonel.
“I believe it was all some scheme of your own,” cried the girl, hysterically. “You are the coward. I shall believe nothing until I’ve seen Mrs. Swinton, and hear what the rector has to say about it. Dick was the soul of honor. He was no thief.”
“He was in debt, my girl,” cried the colonel. “You don’t understand the position of a young man placed as he was. Herresford was understood to have discarded him as his heir. No doubt the young fellow had raised money on his expectations. Creditors were making existence a burden to him. Many a soldier has ended things with a revolver and an inquest for less than seven thousand dollars.”
“Ah, that sort of death requires a different kind of courage,” sneered Ormsby, who was nettled by Dora’s taunts.
“I won’t listen to you,” she cried. “You are146defaming the man I love. He couldn’t go away with such things on his conscience. It is all some wicked plot.”
Ormsby shrugged his shoulders, and the colonel sighed despondently, while Dora swept out of the room, drawing her skirts away from Ormsby as though his touch were contamination.
147CHAPTER XIVMRS. SWINTON CONFESSES
Those who heard of the heroic death of Dick Swinton soon heard also of the disgraceful circumstances surrounding his departure. His volunteering was now looked upon as a flight from justice; his death as a suicide to avoid the inevitable punishment of his crime.
Everybody knew—except the rector.
He, poor man, comforted in his sorrow by the thought that his son’s memory would be forever glorious, manfully endeavored to stifle his misery and go about his daily tasks. The sympathy of his parishioners was not made apparent by their bearing toward him. He was disappointed in not receiving more direct consolation from his friends and those with whom he was in direct and almost daily communication. There was something shamefaced in their attitude. His churchwardens mumbled a few words of regret, and turned away, confused. People avoided him in the street, for the simple reason that they knew not what attitude to take in such painful circumstances. The stricken man was very conscious of, but could not understand, the constraint148and diffidence of those people who did pluck up sufficient courage to say they were sorry.
The revelation came, not through the proper channel—his wife—but from an old friend who met the rector in the street, one afternoon, and spoke out. He offered his hand, and, gripping the clergyman’s slender, delicate white fingers, exclaimed:
“I’m sorry for you, Swinton, and sorry for the lad. He died like a man, and I’ll not believe it was to avoid disgrace.”
“Avoid disgrace?” cried the rector, astounded.
“Ay; many a man has gone to war because his country was too hot to hold him. But your son was different. If he did steal his grandfather’s money, he meant to come back. Thieves and vagabonds of that sort don’t stand up against a wall with a dozen rifles at them, and refuse to speak the few words that’d save their skins.”
“Stole his grandfather’s money! What do you mean?”
“Why, the money they say he got from the bank. Bah! the Ormsby’s are a bad lot. I’d rather deal with the Jews. It was his grandfather he thought he was cheating, perhaps—that isn’t like stealing from other people. But this I will say, Swinton: your wife, she might have told a lie to save the boy.”
“I don’t understand you,” said the clergyman, haughtily.149
“Well, I’ll be more plain. He altered his grandfather’s checks, and kept the money for himself, didn’t he? Well, if my boy had done the same, and my wife hadn’t the sense or the heart to shield him, I’d—” He broke off abruptly.
“What you are saying is all double Dutch to me,” cried the rector, hoarsely. “You don’t mean to tell me that the bank people have set about that cock-and-bull story of repudiated checks? I told them they were wrong. I thought they understood.”
“Ay, you told them they were wrong; but your wife told them they were right—at least, that’s how the story goes. The boy altered her checks, and robbed his grandfather—if you call it robbing. I call it getting a bit on account by forcing the hand of a skinflint. For old Herresford is worse than the Ormsbys, worse than the Jews. He has owed me money for eighteen months, and I’ve got to go to the courts to force him to pay. I’ve had a boy go wrong myself; but he’s working with me now as straight and good a lad as man could wish. Look them straight in the face, Swinton, and tell them from the pulpit that the boy’s fault in swindling his grandfather out of what ought to be his, was wiped out by his service to his country. It was a damned fine piece of pluck, sir. I take off my hat to the boy; and, if there’s to be any service of burial, or anything of that sort, I’ll come.”150
The rector parted from his candid friend, still unable to grasp the situation thoroughly. That the bank had spread abroad the false report seemed certain. He hurried, fuming with indignation, to call on Mr. Barnby and have the matter out with him. But it was past three, and the doors of the bank were shut.
If his wife had seen Barnby, there must have been some misunderstanding. He hurried home, to find the house silent and deserted. In the study, the light was fading and the fire had gone out. He was about to ring for the lamp to be lighted when a stifled sob revealed the presence of someone in the room.
“Mary!”
His wife was on the hearth-rug, with her arms spread out on the seat of the little tub chair, and her head bowed down. She heard him come in, but did not raise her head.
“Mary, Mary, you must not give way like this,” he murmured, as he bent over her and raised her gently. “Tears will not bring him back, Mary.”
“It isn’t that—it isn’t that!” she cried, as he lifted her to her feet. “Oh, I am so wretched! I must confess, John—something that will make you hate and loathe me.”
“And I have something to talk to you about, dearest. There is a horrible report spread in the151town, apparently, by the bank people. Just now, a man came up and condoled with me, calling my son a thief and a forger.”
“John! John!” cried his wife, placing her hands upon his shoulders, and presenting a face strained with agony. “I am going to tell you something that will make you hate me for the rest of your life.”
The rector trembled with a growing dread.
“First, tell me what Barnby said to you, and what you said to him, about those checks that you got from your father. You must have given Barnby an entirely erroneous impression.”
“It is about those checks I am going to speak. When you have heard me, condemn me if you like, but don’t ruin us utterly. That is all I ask. Don’t ruin us.”
“Be more explicit. You are talking in riddles. Everybody seems to be conspiring to hide something from me. What is it? What has happened? What did Dick do before he went away? Did he do anything at all? Have you hidden something from me?”
“John, the checks I got from father, with which we paid our debts to stave off disgrace, were—forgeries.”
“Lord help us, Mary! Do you mean that we have been handling stolen money?”152
“Don’t put it like that, John, don’t! I can’t bear it.”
“And is it true what they’re saying about Dick? Oh! it’s horrible. I’ll not believe it of our boy.”
“There is no need to believe it, John. He is innocent, though they condemn him. Yet, the checks were forgeries.”
“Then, who? You got the checks, didn’t you? I thought—Ah!”
“I am the culprit, John. I altered them.”
“You?”
“Yes, John. Don’t look at me like that. Father was outrageous. There was no money to be got from him, and I had no other course. Your bankruptcy would have meant your downfall. That dressmaker woman was inexorable. You would have been sued by your stock-broker, and—who knows what wretchedness was awaiting us?—perhaps absolute beggary in obscure lodgings, and our daily bread purchased with money begged from our friends. You know what father is: you know how he hates both you and me, how he would rub salt into our wounds, and gloat over our humiliation. If—if Dick hadn’t gone to the front—”
“Mary, Mary, what are you saying! You have robbed your father of money instead of facing the result of our follies bravely? You have sent our boy to the war—with money filched by a felony!153Don’t touch me! Stand away! No; I thought you were a good woman!”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t realize.”
“You are not a child, without knowledge of the ways of the world. You must have known what you were doing.”
“I thought that father would never know,” she faltered, chokingly. “He hoards his money, and a few thousands more or less would make no difference to him. There was every chance that he would never discover the loss. It was as much mine as his. He has thousands that belonged to my mother, which he cheated me out of. I added words and figures to the checks, like the fool that I was, not using the same ink that father used for the signatures, and—and the bank found out.”
“Horrible! horrible! But what has this to do with poor Dick? Why do people turn away from me and stammer at the mention of his name, as though they were ashamed? He, poor boy, knew nothing of all this.”
“John, John, you don’t understand yet!” she whispered, creeping nearer to him, with extended hands, ready to entwine her arms about his neck. He retreated, white-faced and terrified, thinking of the serpent in Eden and the woman who tempted. She was tempting him now, coming nearer to wind her soft arms about him and hold him close, so that154he would be powerless, as he always was when her breath was on his cheek, and her eyes pleading for a bending of his stern principles before her more-worldly needs.
She held him tight-clasped to her until he could feel the beating of her heart and the heaving of her bosom against his breast. It was thus that she had often cajoled him to buy things that he could not afford, to entertain people that he would rather not see, to indulge his children in vanities and follies against his better judgment, to desert his plain duty to his Church in favor of some social inanity. She was always tempting, caressing, and charming him with playful banter when he would be serious, weakening him when he would be strong, coaxing him to play when he would have worked. He had been as wax in her hands; but hitherto her sins had been little ones, and chiefly sins of omission.
“John! John!” she whispered huskily, with her lips close to his ear. “You must promise not to hate me, not to curse me when you have heard. You’ll despise me, you’ll be horrified. But promise—promise that you won’t be cruel.”
“I am never cruel, Mary. Tell me—how is Dick implicated?”
“John, I have done a more dreadful thing than stealing money.”
“Mary!”155
“I have denied my sin—not for my own sake; no, John, it was for all our sakes—for yours, for Netty’s, for her future husband’s, for the good of the church where you have worked so hard and have become so indispensable.”
“Don’t torture me! Speak plainly—speak out!” he gasped, with labored breath, as though he were choking.
“The bank people thought that Dick altered the checks, John. Of course, if he had lived, I should have confessed that it was not he, but I. I saw our chance when the dreadful news came. They couldn’t punish him for his mother’s sin, and they were powerless, if I denied altering the checks. I did deny it—no, John, don’t shrink away like that! I won’t let you go. No, hold me to you, John, or I can’t go on. Don’t you see that my disgrace would be far greater than a man’s? I should be cut by everyone, disowned by my own father, prosecuted by the bank, and sent to prison. John—don’t you understand? Don’t look at me like that! They’ll put me in a felon’s dock, if you speak. I, your wife, the wife of the rector of St. Botolph’s—think of it!”
She held out her hands appealingly to him; but he thrust her off in terror, as though she were an evil spirit from another world, breathing poisonous vapors.156
“John, John, you must see that I’m right. Think of Netty. We have a child who lives. Dick is dead. How does it matter what they say about Dick’s money affairs? He died bravely. His name will go down honored and esteemed. The glamour of his heroism will blot out any taint of sin his mother may have put upon him. My denial will save his sister, his father, his mother—our home. Oh, John, you must see it—you must!”
“You must confess!” he cried, denouncing her with outstretched finger and in bitter scorn. “You shall!”
“No, no, John,” she screamed, wringing her hands in pitiful supplication. “Speak more quietly.”
“You have sullied the name of your dead son with a cowardly crime. Woman! Woman! This is devil’s work. They think our boy fled like a thief with his pockets full of stolen money, whilst all the time you and I were evading the just reward of our follies and extravagance.”
“John, the money was used to pay your debts and his debts, as well as mine; to stave off ruin from you and from him as well as from myself, and to keep Netty’s husband for her. Do you think that Harry Bent could possibly marry Netty, if her mother were sent to jail?”
“Don’t bring our children into this, Mary. You—”157
“I must speak of Netty—I must! Would she ever forgive us, if her lover cast her off?”
“And will he marry her, now that her brother is disgraced?”
“Oh, her brother’s disgrace is nothing. It is only gossip. They can’t arrest Dick and imprison him. Oh, I couldn’t bear it—I couldn’t!”
“And, yet, you will see your son’s name defamed in the moment of his glory.”
“John, John, I did it to save you. I didn’t think of myself. I’ve never been afraid to stand by anything I’ve done before. But this! Oh, take me away and kill me, shoot me, say that it was an accident, and I’ll gladly endure my punishment. But a mother is never alone in her sin. The sins of the fathers—you know the text well enough, John. Last night, I tried to kill myself.”
“Mary!”
He groaned, with outstretched hands, revealing his love and the gap in his armor where he could still be pierced.
“Yes. I thought it would be best. I wrote a full confession of everything, such a letter as would cover my father with shame, and send him to his grave, dreading to meet his Maker. I meant to poison myself, but I thought of you in your double sorrow, John—what would you do without me?—and Netty, motherless when she most needs guidance. I158thought of the disgrace and the shame of it, the inquest and the newspaper accounts—oh, I’ve been through horrors untold, John. I’ve been punished a hundred times for all I’ve done. John! John! Don’t stand away from me like that! If you do, I shall go upstairs now—now!—and put an end to everything. I’ve got the poison there. I’ll go. God is my judge. I won’t live to be condemned by you and everybody, and have my name a by-word for all time—the daughter who ran away with a parson, and robbed her father to save her husband, and then was flung into jail by the godly man, who would rather see his daughter a social outcast and his wife in penal servitude than stand by her.”
“It’s a sin—a horrible sin!”
“Who are you to judge me? Would Dick have betrayed his mother?”
“Mary—Mary! Don’t tempt me—don’t—don’t! You know what my plain duty is. You know what our duty to our dead son is. Your father must be appealed to. We will go to him on our bended knees, and beg forgiveness. The bank people must be told the truth, and they must contradict publicly the slander upon Dick.”
“Then, you would have your wife humiliated and publicly branded as a thief and a forger? What do you think people will say of us, then? Shall I ever dare to show my face among my friends again?”159
“We must go away, to a new place, a new country, where no one knows us and we mustn’t come back.”
“And Netty?”
“Netty must bear her share of the burden you have put upon us. We will bear it together.”
“No; Netty is blameless. You and I, John, must suffer, not she. It would be wicked to ruin her young life. You won’t denounce me, John. You can’t. You won’t have me sent to prison. You won’t disgrace me in the eyes of my friends. You won’t do anything—at least, until Netty is married—will you?”
“Harry Bent must know.”
“No, no, John. You know what his people are, stiff-necked, conventional, purse-proud, always boasting of their lineage. Until Netty is married! Wait till then.”
“I don’t know what to do,” moaned the broken man, bursting into tears, and sinking into his chair at the table.
“Be guided by me, John. The dead can’t feel, while the living can be condemned to lifelong torture.”
“Have your own way,” he groaned. “I don’t know what to do. I shall never hold up my head again.”
“Oh, yes, you will, John, and—there is always160my shoulder to rest it upon, dearest. Let me comfort you.”
Netty Swinton sat before the drawing-room fire, curled up on the white bearskin rug with a book in her hand, munching biscuits. Netty was generally eating something. Her eyes were red, but she had not been weeping much, and, as she stared into the embers, her pretty, expressionless little mouth was drawn in a discontented downward curve.
She was in mourning—and she hated black. Netty was thinking ruefully of Dick’s disgrace that had fallen upon the family, and wondering anxiously what the effect would be upon Harry Bent and his relations, when a knock at the front door disturbed her meditations, and presently, after a parley, a visitor was announced—although visitors were not received to-day, with Mrs. Swinton lying ill upstairs, and the rector shut up alone in his study.
“Miss Dundas.”
Netty rose ungraciously, and presented a frigid hand to Dora, casting a sharp, feminine eye over the newcomer’s black dress and hat, which signified that she, too, was in mourning. This Netty regarded as rather impertinent.
The girls had never been intimate friends, although they had seen a great deal of one another when Mrs. Swinton took Dora under her wing and introduced161her into society, which found Netty dull, and made much of Dora. This aroused a natural jealousy. The girls were opposite in temperament, and, in a way, rivals.
“Netty, is your mother really ill?” asked Dora, as she extended her hand, “or is she merely not receiving anyone?”
“Mother has a bad headache, and is lying down. She is naturally very upset.”
“Oh, Netty, it is terrible!” sobbed Dora, breaking down hopelessly. “It can’t be true—it can’t!”
“What can’t be true?” asked Netty, coldly.
“Poor dear Dick’s death. It will kill me.”
“I don’t think there is any doubt about it,” snapped Netty. “And I don’t see why you should feel it more than anybody else.”
“Netty, that is unkind of you—ungenerous. You know I loved Dick. He was mine—mine!”
“Forgive me, but was he not also Nellie Ocklebourne’s, and the dear friend of I don’t know how many others besides? But none of them have been here since they heard that he got into a scrape before he went away.”
“There has been some hideous blunder.”
“No, it is simple enough,” said Netty, curling herself up on a low settee. “Think what it may mean to me—just engaged to Harry Bent—and now, there’s no knowing what he may do. His people162may resent his bringing into the family the sister of a—forger.”
“Netty, you sha’n’t speak of Dick like that!”
“Why shouldn’t I? Did he think of me? Really, you are too absurd! I don’t see why you should excite yourself about it. If you think that he cared for you only, you are merely one more foolish victim.”
“Netty, how can you talk of your brother so! He is accused of a horrible crime. Why don’t you stand up for him? Why don’t you do something to clear him? What is your father doing—and your mother?”
“Surely, they can be left to manage their affairs as they think best.”
“And I, who loved him, must do nothing, I suppose,” cried Dora, hysterically. “I loved him, I tell you, and he loved me. We were engaged.”
“Engaged! What nonsense! Really, Dora!”
“No one knew, Netty,” sobbed Dora, aching for a little feminine sympathy, even from Netty. “Here is his ring, upon this ribbon round my neck.”
“Surely, you don’t think that is interesting to me—and at such a time.”
“Well, if it isn’t,” cried Dora, flashing out through her tears, “perhaps your brother’s honor is. I must see your mother, and urge her to refute the awful slanders spread about by Vivian Ormsby.”163
“Oh, so your other admirer is responsible for spreading the story of Dick’s misdeeds. I think he might have kept silent. You must know that it is only because Ormsby made himself ridiculous about you, and because Dick hated Ormsby, that he flirted with you, and so caused bad blood between them. I think that you might leave Dick alone, now that he is dead.”
“Dead! Dead! He can’t be,” cried Dora desperately. “I must see your mother,” she insisted. “I shall go up to her room. This is no ordinary time, and my business is urgent.”
Netty shrugged her shoulders, and walked out of the room, apparently to inform her mother of the visit. After a long delay, Mrs. Swinton entered, looking white and haggard.
“What is it you want of me?” she asked, with a feeble assumption of her usual languid tone.
“Oh, Mrs. Swinton, it isn’t true—tell me it isn’t true! I can’t believe it of him.”
“You are referring to Dick’s trouble? Our sorrow is embittered by the knowledge that our poor boy went away—”
Words failed her. She could not lie to this girl, whose eyes seemed to be searching her very soul. What did she suspect?
“My father told me of the checks,” said Dora. “They were made out to you. Yet, they say he164forged them. How could he? I don’t understand these things; and father’s explanation didn’t enlighten me at all. I loved Dick—you know I did.”
“I suspected it, Dora, and had things gone well with us, I should have been as pleased as anybody, if the affection between you ripened—”
“Ripened!” cried Dora, with fine contempt: “He loved me, and I loved him. We were engaged. No one was to know till he came back, but now—well, what does it matter who knows? But those who slander him and take away his good name must answer to me. Vivian Ormsby was always his enemy. But you—you must have known what he was doing. He couldn’t take all that money and go away in debt, and talk as he did of having got money from his grandfather by extortion. He told me that you’d been able to arrange things for him.”
“He told you that!” cried Mrs. Swinton, startled into revealing her alarm.
“Yes, he told me that his grandfather had grown impossible, and that you were the only one who could get money out of him. He said you’d got lots of money, and that things were better for everybody at home—those were his words. Yet, they say he altered checks. What do they mean? How could he?”
“My dear, it is too complicated a matter for a girl like you to understand. You must know that to165discuss such a matter with me in this time of sorrow is little less than cruel.”
“Cruel? Isn’t it cruel to me, too? Isn’t his honor as dear to me as to his mother? I tell you, I won’t rest until he is set right before the world. Where is Mr. Swinton? He is a man, and can make a public denial on behalf of his son. Surely, he’s not going to sit quiet, and let Mr. Ormsby—”
“It is not Mr. Ormsby—it is his grandfather who repudiates the checks, Dora. Don’t you think that you are best advised by me, his mother? Do you think I didn’t love Dick? Do you think that, if there were any way of refuting the charges, I should be silent? His father knows that it is useless. You will serve Dick best by burying your love in your heart, and saying as little as possible. He died the death of a hero; and as a hero he will be remembered by us, not by his follies. And, after all, what was the tricking of his grandfather out of a few thousands that were really his own? It was a family matter, which should never have been made public at all.”
“That’s what I told father,” faltered Dora.
“The best thing you can do, Dora, is to mollify Mr. Ormsby. Don’t anger him. Don’t urge him on to blacken Dick’s memory, as he is sure to do if you don’t look more kindly upon his suit. He expects to marry you. He told me so when I met him166at dinner at the Bents’. Your father wishes it, and, if Dick could speak now, he would wish it, too—that you would do everything in your power to close the lips of his rival. Ormsby is a splendid match for a girl like you, an eldest son, and immensely wealthy. He worships you, and is a stronger man altogether than poor Dick, who was weak, like his mother. What am I saying—what am I saying? My sense of right and wrong is dulled. Help me. Bring me that chair. Oh! I’m a very wretched woman, Dora!” cried the unhappy mother, sinking into the chair Dora brought forward. “Take warning by me. Love with your head and not your heart, Dora. Don’t risk everything for a foolish girl’s passion, when a rich man offers you a proud position.”
“I shall never marry Vivian Ormsby,” said Dora, scornfully, “I shall never marry anybody. Oh, Dick!—I am his. And you, Mrs. Swinton—I thought one day to call you mother. Yet, you talk like this to me, as though Dick were unworthy—you whom he idolized.”
“Don’t taunt me, Dora!” moaned the wretched mother. “I shall always be fond of you for Dick’s sake. Good-bye—and forgive me.” Mrs. Swinton tottered from the room with arms extended, a pitiable figure; and Dora stood alone, crestfallen, and faced with the inevitable.
Her idol was thrown down. Yet, what did it167matter that his feet were clay? She stood where Mrs. Swinton had left her, rooted to the spot as if unable to move. This room was in Dick’s home, and shadowed by remembrances of him.
The door opened, and the rector looked in, with a face so ghastly and drawn that she almost cried out in terror. His hair was white, and his eyes looked wild.
“Oh, you, Miss Dundas,” he murmured, as he advanced with an extended, limp hand. “I thought I heard my wife’s voice.”
“I have come to offer my condolences,” murmured Dora, unable to do more than utter commonplaces in the face of his grief.
“Yes, yes—thank you—thank you. It is a great blow, but I suppose we shall be reconciled in time.”
With that, he turned abruptly and hurried away into the study, not trusting himself to say more, and omitting to bid her adieu.
Her mission had failed, and, as Netty did not return, she let herself out of the house quietly, and, with one last look round at Dick’s home, crept away.